Consulting Detective and Guide
by Lil Nezumi
Summary: Sentinel Twist - PT I - (S1 BBC, Episode 01, RE-WRITE!) Sentinels and Guides have been in existence for years. Romantics believe that some Sentinels won't wake up to their potential unless they meet their Guide, some think it's rubbish. See chapter one for more in-depth summary.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Consulting Detective & Guide

**Characters:** Sherlock/John (based on BBC version, slash implied)

_**MY Inspiration:**_ Sherlock-BBC (all T.V., Movie or Book version), Sentinel (T.V. Series)

**Disclaimer:** This is my standard disclaimer; I don't own anything in regards to the sources of _**MY**__**Inspiration**_. All publically recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

All the characters, worlds, base concepts or general ideas are just a bit food for the writing bug. This story is pure fiction and is in no way meant to copy or reflect real life, events or people, should this happen then obviously it is pure coincidence.

**Warning: **See author profile for preferred pairing type.

**Summary:** (S1 BBC, Episode 01, RE-WRITE!) Sentinels and Guides have been in existence for years. Each having their own centres and protective government organizations, with mutual co-existent centres in many cities for the purpose of bringing the two together. There are times when it just does not happen. Romantics believe that some Sentinels just don't wake up to their full potential unless the find their Guide first.

**Speech Legend: **(This is the standard by which I write my stories and therefore you will not see this repeated in future chapters)

"Normal"  
'_Thoughts_'  
(…Sign language…)  
(..._Parseltongue_...)

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**CH 1**

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

Coming back from Afghanistan with a war wound in his left shoulder and a psychosomatic limp in his right leg, was not something that Gene Non-Active (GNA) Sentinel Dr. John H. Watson had wanted. He had been hoping to at least have had a chance to become an activated Sentinel during his stint with the army when he had been near the front-lines.

He may not have been a gung-ho typical soldier type of Sentinel because he'd chosen to be an excellent medical doctor and field surgeon instead, but he could still hold his own in a fight. His records for shooting targets with his pistol had ranked high enough to give fully active Sentinels a run for their money. So much so, that he'd been tested periodically on and off, during his time in the field for an activated Sentinel status. Needless to say, many of his superior officers really disliked the fact that he hadn't become active during his time with them.

Many had wondered why he never fully activated, but the prevailing theory, now, was that he was never going to find a Guide. There was also the remote possibility that his Guide may have already passed away. The sentimentalists or romanticists among the general population, including some of the Sentinels and Guides, believed that he may be one of the rare ones that would only activate upon meeting with his one true Guide.

John had never believed that hype and he knew that coming back to civilian life without active Sentinel abilities, plus his inoperable war wound, had earned him a permanent medical discharge from the military ranks. At least he was compensated with a modest military pension for the rest of his life. It was all, part and parcel to being wounded for Queen and Country.

That pension still wasn't enough to live on, not in London anyway, which is where he was being released from his active army duties. It was also where the military chose to foot the bill for his mandatory post-war therapy sessions. He was scheduled for several physical, psychological and even a couple of Sentinel consultations too. He had the option to be re-trained, paid for by the Sentinel Council, but only on the condition that he becomes an activated Sentinel.

'_Like that's going to happen,_' he thought, while grimacing as he hobbled off the local transit bus and into a kind of half way veteran boarding house for injured soldiers. It was not even a proper flat, but he didn't think that he was ready to be living in a real flat either. He had a bit of time to get used to his new situation.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**Elsewhere and a short time later**

On a rainy night a young man and his mate walked down a dark lit street. One turned to the other declaring that he'd go home for his brolly, but was never seen from again.

Weeks later his body was found and it was declared to be an apparent suicide. The papers only put a footnote in the obituaries related to the situation. The incident wasn't deemed sensational enough for a full story. But the police had an open file on the young man because "_apparent_" suicide and "_conclusive_" suicide were two very different things.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**A Few Months Later**

A mature woman left a party in her honour and disappeared.

Her body was found in an abandoned building. It was a strange location for a suicide, which had many of her colleagues questioning her sanity and the odd fact that she never left a note.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**Still Months Later**

A man was on the phone with his receptionist and mistress. She had been teasing him, as he'd just returned from a business trip and the car that was scheduled to pick him up had not yet arrived.

"Get a cab," she told him laughingly into the phone, as he grumbled about it. "I love you," she told him and smiled quietly to herself when she heard him reply in the same manner. It was the last time that she'd been able to talk to him.

His body was discovered by a construction worker four days later when the building contract resumed after they'd taken a short break for a Banker's Holiday week-end.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson (...i...)

**Present Day**

A press conference was held shortly thereafter with a panel of police representatives. Detective Inspector and GNA Sentinel Greg Lestrade had been placed in charge of the above '_apparent_' suicide cases. He was being forced to hold the press conference because his superiors needed to be seen as doing something about the apparent coincidences in the suicidal deaths of the three unrelated individuals. The similarities could no longer be ignored and the public were demanding answers, well the press was.

"We are gathered here to discuss the seeming similarity among the deaths of these three people," one, Active Guide (AG), status unbonded, Sergeant Sally Donovan told the press core. She was not comfortable in front of the cameras because of her low-to-mid level empathic ability, but it was a familiar enough situation for her and therefore she continued in all seriousness.

"The body of Sir Jeffrey Patterson was found late last night in a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigation suggests that this was a suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport and James Fillmore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked," the first eager reporter questioned.

The slightly grey-haired man cleared his throat and said, "Well they all took the same poison. They were all in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indications..."

The same reporter interrupted by stating, "But you can't have serial suicides."

"Apparently you can," the Detective Inspector blurted out, more irritated by this situation and the case then by the reporter's statement. He'd already run over everything in his mind and everything pointed in the direction that the cases were linked. It had truly looked like serial suicides and he sincerely hoped it wasn't some kind of cultish suicide pact thing that seemed to be crawling its way into London's streets. Still these victims were not even closely related by school, age, social circles or even remotely biologically.

'_Something is wrong here,_' he thought. '_What am I going to do about this circus? I really don't want to turn to him again. He's going to be impossible!_'

Another reporter chimed in with their question, "These three people, there's nothing that links them?"

"Well, there's no link found yet," Lestrade told everyone. "But we're looking for it...there has to be one."

There was a series of beeps, jingles and jangles as everyone's cell phones alerted them to an incoming text that said:

_**WRONG!**_

Sally Donovan looked at hers and frowned, but she immediately told the press, "If you've all got texts, please ignore them."

A reporter said, "It just says '_Wrong_'."

"Yeah, well, just ignore that," the policewoman said. Her boss had had enough and so had she. "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."

"If they are suicides," a third reporter chimed in. "Then what are you investigating?"

"As I said, these suicides are clearly linked," he paused to sip some water. "But it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating..." He paused as the cell phones in the room alerted everyone about another text message:

_**WRONG!**_

"It says '_Wrong_' again," another reporter said.

"Final question," Sally told them. She was trying to take their minds off of the text messages that kept interrupting their conference.

"Is there any chance that these are murders and if they are...is this the work of a serial killer?" A final reporter piped up.

"I know that you like writing about this type of thing," Lestrade said. "But these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The poison was clearly self-administered."

"Yes, but if they are murders," the first report started. "How do people keep themselves safe?"

"Well don't commit suicide," DI Lestrade nearly barked out, irritated at still being there to answer the silly questions.

"Ah-hem," Sally coughed and covered it with her hand to whisper, "Daily Mail."

DI Lestrade nearly rolled his eyes, but he did sigh and say, "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

_**WRONG!**_

Again the texts came in, '_Wrong_', only this time on Lestrade's phone the message was, '_**You know where to find me. SH**_'.

"No more questions," Sally said standing up. Her supervisor followed and they left the conference room together. As they walked back into their section of cubicles away from the central conference area of the station, she said. "You've got to stop him from doing that. He's making us look like idiots."

"If you can tell me how he does it," Lestrade answered. "Then I'll stop him." He watched his subordinate huff and he left her to resume her research into one of the numerous cases on her desk.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**TBC...**

(...i...) Most of the conversations in this story will be direct from the episode, as I'll try to find a way to change or alter the path of this story. This story is just a basic re-write with a few new elements incorporated and only because I find the idea of the Sentinel Universe mixed with Sherlock to be a strangely appealing one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one, from here on this will not be repeated.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**CH 2**

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

John Watson was in his single bed, asleep. However, he tossed and turned. His mind filled with scenes from the war he'd recently left. His head moved once more and his hands reached for his absent pistol when his body twitched hard enough to wake. It was akin to that odd falling sensation that one occasionally feels when asleep and was quite a jar to the system.

He rubbed his face and covered his eyes, hiding the pain he felt at the feeling of not having done enough. He had done everything he could, but some days it felt like he hadn't been able to save as many soldiers as he had done.

There had been Sentinels there with their Guides, but sometimes when a Guide died it was too much of a shock to their Sentinel. So much so that they went primal and destroyed everything in their path, before they had been taken down by enemy fire. The reverse was often true of the Guides, as well.

Whenever he happened to witness those moments, he was grateful that he didn't have a Guide and that he had still been classed as a GNA Sentinel. He wouldn't have wanted to experience that kind of extreme emotional loss during a battle situation. In truth he didn't want to know that kind of loss or pain under any circumstance, and had wondered if activation is worth it. His own sibling had been a perfect example of _that_ kind of situation.

Harriet (Harry) Watson had lost her first Guide to a childhood illness and had been trying to compensate for it for the longest time. She'd even married a low level Guide in the hopes that it would alleviate some of the pain that she lived with on a daily basis. But even that didn't seem to be helping as the marriage was in a rocky state or so he'd been told just upon his return. She had handed him a used cell phone with the order that he was to keep in touch with her.

John just shook his head at the thought of going to her for any kind of assistance when she actively chose not to go to the Sentinel Council (SC) for the help she so desperately needed. Like he was one to talk, but there was nothing that any division of the SC could do for him since he hadn't activated during his time on the frontlines. They had no evidence that he ever would activate.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**Days Later**

In a small, windowed office a stately looking black woman looked at the shorter man sitting in front of her. She looked at her note pad and then looked at him asking, "How's your blog going?"

John looked at her and replied, "Yeah, good...very good."

"You haven't written a word have you," she stated, more than questioned. It was clear in his demeanor that he hadn't.

"You just wrote, '_Still has trust issues,_'" he observed.

"And you read my writing up-side down," she pointed out. "You see what I mean though?" She paused hoping he'd chime in with something about himself, but knew that he wouldn't. "John...you're a soldier. A GNA Sentinel with a few senses that are stronger than others. It's still going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"Nothing happens to me," John stated in a slightly defeated manner, as he thought back to his pistol, hidden in his room. Though, as a Sentinel classed citizen, active or no, he was still granted a specialized exemption to the concealed firearm carry and defence law (...i...) of his home country.

"Nothing happens," he repeated.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

Hours later John walked in a local park close to familiar territory. His medical training and schooling had taken place in a University, affectionately known as '_Bart's_', nearby. He wondered if the reason he chose to walk in this direction was so that he'd have the possibility of meeting up with someone from his past or if he had just been feeling slightly homesick for the hustle and bustle of his University days when everything about medicine was fresh and new to him. It was a time when he'd never heard the sound of gunfire or witnessed bloody death.

A voice called out, "John..."

John stopped his frustrated stride forward. He looked around and was about to begin again, thinking that he'd imagined someone calling his name. He paused again as he heard, "John Watson."

A short, slightly portly man approached him. "It's Mike... Mike Stamford."

"Oh, yes," John's mind raced and then remembered his old study buddy from med-school. "Mike, how are you?" He held out his hand and shook the other man's in greeting.

"Fine, fine," Mike said and then asked, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," John agreed with an eager nod.

They took their Clarion Café cups to a nearby bench in the park. Mike had said that he only came out during his breaks because the coffee at the Clarion was still the best and only coffee to drink, which John happened agreed with.

As they sipped their drinks and Mike began to ask questions about John's current living situation. "What happened to you, John? I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at."

"Got shot," John said and lifted the walking stick that had nothing to do with his actual war wound. He looked at the abashed face of his old friend and then asked a question of his own. "Are you still at Bart's then?"

"Yeah," the other man replied jovially. "Teaching now...bright young things like we used to be," he sighed and then continued with a slight grin. "God I hate them. What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension," John snorted into his cup of coffee.

"Can't Harry help," Mike asked.

"Like that's gonna happen," John replied with a scowl at the thought of his sibling.

"I don't know, then," Mike paused to think about a likely response or solution to his friend's dilemma. "Maybe you could get a flat share or something?"

"Come on," John turned to the man. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" His friend looked at him oddly, as though he'd said something strange. "What?"

"Well...," Mike paused and shook his head. "It's just that you're the second person to say that to me today."

That interested John and nothing much these days interested him. So he had to ask, "Who's the first?"

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**Morgue Section of Bart's**

A young man, in his late twenties, strode into the morgue upon receiving a text message from one of his familiar contacts. He needed the morgue access and more importantly access to the bodies for certain scientific experiments.

"How fresh," he asked, as he looked at the old man laying on the gurney.

"Just this morning," the young woman in a lab coat told him. "He used to work here...he was nice." She said. She had mentioned unnecessary information to the young man again, which he chose to ignore as irrelevant.

"Right then," the man had said. "Let's start with the riding crop."

Several minutes later, the youngish looking man was beating the corpse, quite vigorously with a riding crop. He had the look of someone enjoying his activity, but in his eyes there was seriousness in his purpose. His mind was cataloguing several factors of the activity, including the strength and weight he used in his task.

The young female researcher looked down upon the young man from an observation booth with admiration and longing in her eyes. It was clear that she would have liked to be more than a casual acquaintance to him, but her courage always seemed to fail her.

Today was going to be different though, because she'd made a special purchase during her lunch hour. It may have been a whimsical purchase, but it had made her feel bold enough to make some kind of attempt at familiarity with the young man.

The man finished his activity, checked the time on his watch and made a few notes in the notebook he carried around just to keep the records of his experiments clear and separate from the multitude of others he had going on in his head.

"So," the woman came back in and attempted a joke that just didn't work. "Bad day was it?"

"Call me the minute bruises start forming," the young man said. "A man's life depends on it." He looked up at the woman and immediately noticed the change she'd made, but said nothing about it. He knew that the situation would present itself shortly anyway. Life was so boringly predictable sometimes.

"Listen...I was wondering," she said with some hesitation in her voice. "...maybe later, when you're finished..."

The man pretended to be surprised, but it looked convincing to the young lady, "You're wearing lipstick." He paused for half a moment before he continued quickly. "You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I, uh," she hesitated, but finished in a quick breath and a shy smile. "I refreshed it a bit."

"Sorry," the man said. "You were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee..." she was about to add, '_with me_', but he interrupted her.

"Black, two sugars please," he said immediately cutting her off. "I'll be in the upstairs lab, thanks." He left so quickly that she just stood there. She felt as though she'd just been brushed by with a strong wind.

"O...kay," she said, almost about to look around to see if he had been joking with her, but in the secret part of her heart she knew that he hadn't been and that he'd just left her there to perform a basic fetch and carry task.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**Laboratory Section of Bart's**

Mike had been escorting John about the old place and they reminisced about classes and some of the antics that they, as students used get up to during their school days. They talked about the antics that the newer crop of students had gotten up to, as well. They talked about how some things never seemed to change.

They eventually walked into one of the supposedly old familiar labs, but things looked changed to John. The room was not a familiar one anymore what with the newer instruments replacing old or dated ones. Plus there was an interesting and strange young man at one of the microscope station that seemed occupied, as he looked intently at the contents on the glass slide.

"Well," John commented and looked about the room. "Bit different from my day," and Mike just shrugged, as though knowing that something was about to happen and it would all be because of the younger man at the far microscope.

John inhaled and suddenly his eyes focused on the younger man at the other end of the room. He could see the grey flecks in those intensely focused blue-green eyes. His sense of smell was suddenly assaulted by the numerous chemicals and varied sweet and sour body odours.

His own body stiffened in an automated, soldier-like assessing manner and response. It had gone still in an attempt to gain control of his suddenly activated hyper senses.

The odours were sharp and somewhat unpleasant. The chemicals mixed with the bodily odours of all those in the room. His eyes had dilated to a degree that he'd been forced to take long blinks to clear his focus. His hearing was assaulted by the thumps of three heartbeats, which he quickly regulated in order to hear the conversation around him and not the ones occurring in rooms further down the corridor or several floors away from him.

His mental landscape had been prepared for this moment…for years. He'd always imagined his chosen tools to regulate his senses and they had changed over time from a child to a teenager to his final adult status. Now he had to use them very quickly or be caught in a fugue or zoned state, without the recourse of a Guide to get him out of it.

This was it. The moment he'd waited for and it terrified him. The major event that he'd never once thought would happen to him after going so long without any twinge of an extra sensory spike.

His senses had suddenly activated in this teaching hospital and not on the battlefield like he'd believed or had hoped. He'd been repeatedly told that the likelihood of ever finding his Guide was so slim to almost be non-existent because of his lengthy GNA status.

His GNA Sentinel level and potential could not even be registered correctly on the scales that were currently used by the Sentinel Centres. They all assumed that he was at a level so low that it would never register. They figured that is why his status hadn't changed. That is... until today.

"Mike can I use your phone," the younger man asked the slightly shorter of the two gentlemen.

"I left it in my other coat," Mike replied. "Sorry! Why don't you use the land line?"

"I refuse to use something that could be easily traced," the young man replied with a slight disappointed frown. "Besides I prefer to text. It's quicker and I don't have to talk to idiots."

John had a hand clenched around the cell phone in his pocket and had registered the conversation, but could barely hear it under his new circumstances. "Here," he said, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice. He pulled out the cell phone he had barely ever used. He limped over to the end of the table of instruments and held it out. He had tried to appear unaffected by his activated senses and it seemed to be working since the other two had not remarked on it. "You can use mine."

"Thanks," the young man said with another quick glimpse, he assessed older man standing next to him. He texted a message out with the speed of one born using the small keys on the miniature keypads of modern day cellular telephones, much to the envy of the other two men in the room.

"Afghanistan or Iraq," the younger man questioned, as he was about to hand back the phone.

"Sorry," John asked as his body shivered from the most innocent of human contacts, as the phone was placed in his hand. It felt like it had been brushed with a scouring pad made of steel wool instead of the fingerprints that should never have registered in the first place.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," John answered. He looked confused and started to ask, "Sorry, how did you..."

"Ah, Molly...coffee, thank you," the young man exclaimed, as the young woman from earlier came into the lab to deliver a cup of coffee. He paused to sip or gulp part of it down and then he asked her, "What happened to the lipstick?"

The young woman blushed to have been put on the spot about such a little thing like cosmetics. She replied, "It wasn't working for me."

"Really," the young man said. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

"O...kay," Molly whispered to herself. She flushed in embarrassment and quickly left the men to their talk and experiments.

The younger man returned to his microscope. He looked into the lens, made a minor note in his notebook and then he asked out loud, "How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry," John asked in a distracted tone. "What?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," he glanced up at the other man's confusion. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Don't you think?"

"Are you..." John looked confused. He then looked to his old friend and questioned. "You told him about me?"

Mike grinned mischievously and told him, "Not a word."

John looked back towards the younger man. His senses finally getting under control much more quickly than he'd imagined would happen. He sighed with quiet relief when the settled near normalcy and then asked, "Who said of anything about flatmates?"

"I did," the younger man stated. "Told Mike this morning that I must a difficult man to find a flatmate for, now here he is and just back from lunch with an old friend. Who's clearly just been invalided from military service in Afghanistan, it wasn't a difficult leap."

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?"

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He gulped down the rest of his coffee and wrapped his scarf about his neck. He strode towards the door. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash." He opened the door. "I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it," Watson asked in a sharp tone that made the other two men pause. Mike recognized that tone in a person's voice, especially from a Sentinel whose senses were active.

"Is that what," the younger man turned back and away from the door. He involuntarily shivered from the tone, but made no outward motion to indicate that it had affected him, as he tucked both his hands into his coat pocket.

John asked, "We've only just met and now we're going to look at a flat together?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting," he paused. "I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an army doctor, whose just been invalided home from Afghanistan, and you're a recently activated Sentinel, probably occurred during the war. You're here without a Guide which could be a mark of your level according to the measures used by the SC and a fact I find quite odd considering how the Government prefers to keep all of its activated soldiers, invalided or not, all of which is an interesting mystery that I'm going to solve quite soon," the younger man barely paused to take another breath and continued revealing things that John never knew could be determined by the littlest of things.

"I, also, know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for because you don't approve of him...possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. "And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He then opened the door and stepped out of the laboratory. He popped his head back in and said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon..."

Sherlock popped back out, but not without a cheeky wink to Dr. Watson before the door shut on him.

John was stunned at the bombardment of information that Sherlock had supplied from their brief encounter. He looked to his old friend for some kind of explanation.

"Yeah," Mike said with a nod. "He's always like that. So you activated while you were away. I'm surprised that you don't have a Guide yet. Why didn't you tell me?"

John looked back at the closed door. His senses suddenly came back down to normal and they seemed a little more...dull with the absence of Sherlock Holmes. "No, I didn't activate while I was in the army. I'm still listed as GNA with the SC." He looked at Mike's confused expression. "Although, I'm not quite sure that it should be the case anymore, please leave it alone until I can figure out what's going on."

"You got it," Mike said. "But if you want to speak to someone about it, my wife can help..." He drifted off, leaving the invitation open for some off the books advice.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

Meanwhile Sherlock's thoughts were on his current case, but they turned periodically to the soldier Sentinel that he'd just met. He'd been hoping that Mike Stamford would bring him someone reliable to help him out, because there was no question the man would be able to find someone needing a flatshare. It would also, likely be someone used to the scientific environment and bodily experimentations. He mustn't have said that he wasn't looking for a Sentinel.

'_Why bring me an unbonded Sentinel,_' Sherlock thought. '_He knows that I'm an activated Guide. There's always a danger in such situations...Unless he didn't know that his friend was activated, which makes perfect sense, if Dr. Watson was hiding it. But why would he hide something like that, there's nothing shameful in having hyper-active senses. Is he ashamed, why would he...I'd much have preferred being the Sentinel instead of a useless, unbondable Guide._'

He arrived back at the Mortuary and soon his thoughts were back on the cases at hand. He glanced at the body that he'd battered and noted that a few bruises had started forming. He snapped a picture of them and noted in his mental notebook that the ones appearing were the ones he inflicted with mid to maximum strength. He stared at the others that were forming and snapped some images of those too, making more mental notes.

The thought of living with an active Sentinel had been temporarily put aside in his mind for more interesting things. Although he added a note to the shadow form of Dr. Watson, which took on an outline of an armed soldier, in his mind and he thought, '_Must see if he'll allow me to do some sense experimentation,_'

Then he took off to follow another lead to his current case.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**TBC...**

(...i...) Made up law, meant to partially reflect some that exist, since I believe that the UK has a non-gun policy.


	3. Chapter 3

**CH 3**

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

John returned to his one room cubby in the veteran half-way house. He sat on his single bed, which he hated, since there were no other larger bits of furniture comfortable enough for him to relax in. He looked to his small desk and then to the used laptop on it.

It was a small bit of compensation and it had been paid for by the Government as an aid to his rehabilitation and for his supposed _Blog_ therapy. He didn't trust the web or the blog sphere though, which is why he hadn't written his daily happenings in there, much to the disappointment of his Psychologist and the SC.

He inhaled deeply and scented the gun oil from the kit in the drawer. He was then vividly reminded that his senses had activated for a short time that day. They had been sharp and some were interesting, but most of the time he found it to be quite overwhelming and frightening too.

He didn't have full control yet and he wanted most of that before he revealed his activated status to the Sentinel Council. He didn't want to be forced to attend some social event with Guides being presented to him at a Joining Centre without being in control of his sensory reactions. He'd, quite frankly, rather avoid that rigmarole altogether.

All legally tested GNA Sentinels were informed of the potential hazards of sudden activation. They were vigorously taught how to prepare their minds for such an eventuality. He had taken his studies in the matter very seriously and used much of what he'd learned about meditation in order to do as well as he did in the army. His visual aide devices had been developed long before he left for the battlefield. That was as much as the SC could do for any of those with a GNA Sentinel status.

His old friend Mike Stamford was an active Guide and the man's wife was his Sentinel. She had been classed as a low level Sentinel and Mike had been lucky in the fact that the woman chose to be a teacher at one of the larger, combined Sentinel and Guide Centres (SGC) in the city. It had allowed Mike the chance to do what he loved, which was, of course, to teach the bright young things that he sometimes hated.

John had been so close to believing that he'd never be activated as a Sentinel and when today of all days, he meets a potential flatmate, who seemed to know a lot about him, by just looking at him. '_A remarkable talent, that,_' he thought. '_I wonder if he sees too much because of it. I must be like a blessing and curse at the same time._'

It also seemed like his potential flatmate might be a Guide of some ability too, since he'd reacted to the Sentinel voice, just like his old friend had. It wasn't as though the younger man had shown any outward sign of having been affected, but any Sentinel would have noticed those reactions.

'_Going to have to be careful with that,_' John thought. '_Not many Sentinels have a voice that can affect Guides. It's like the Guide's own special voice for their personal Sentinels, but some have a tone that can affect all Sentinels...I think they might be monitored or registered by the Guide Councils (GC). I wonder if they monitor the Sentinels in the same manner?_'

He looked back at his portable computer. He stood up, approached his desk, and settled there to do some web searching. The first thing he typed...

_Sherlock Holmes London_

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

The next day, John walked up to a door next to a charming little bakery slash café named '_Speedy's_'. A yellow cab had just pulled up, as he knocked on the dark blue door with 221B over a door knocker.

"You're right on time," Sherlock stated.

"Mr. Holmes," John said holding out his hand to be shaken.

"Sherlock, please," the younger man said, shaking his hand.

"John," Dr. Watson replied. "Well this is a prime spot, must be expensive?"

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal," Sherlock explained. "She owes me a favour. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. Luckily I was able to help her out."

John looked to Sherlock and asked, "So you stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh no," Sherlock replied with a slight mischievous grin. "I ensured it."

"Sherlock," a matronly woman opened the door with arms wide to embrace the younger man in welcome. "There you are, come in and get yourself warmed up dear."

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduced them, as they headed up a set of stairs to the actual 221B Flat.

The building was an old fashioned townhouse that had been converted into a series of three flats, one per floor with an additional bed room at the top of the house, in case it was required. The landlady resided on the main floor behind a door marked 221 and there was a door just across from the small landing which separated the narrow stairs up into two sections, which contained the number 221C.

Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson followed Sherlock as he strode into the room, as though he was familiar with the layout of the flat already. He made his way to his own laptop to check for emails, hoping that one of them would contain an interesting case or new information on another that he was working on.

John looked around the flat and noted that there were lots of test tubes, petri dishes and beakers in the kitchen. His nose twitched as he felt something begin to assault his sense of smell, but using the meditation techniques that he'd learnt long ago, he tuned it out in order to make his blunt observational comment. "This is lovely, I'm sure it will be perfect once we clean the rubbish out of…"

Sherlock looked sheepish. He picked up a pillow with the Union Jack flag stitched on its surface and tossed in into a low, battered, yet comfortable looking chair, as he said, "I'll sort my stuff out, soon enough…"

"Oh…" John muttered and then he lifted his unnecessary cane and pointed at a grinning piece of human ivory. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," Sherlock replied, again with a mischievous grin. "Well…when I say friend…" He shrugged, as he used a dagger to pierce some bits of paper to the mantel. Then he moved to another area to toss a few things into a trunk. He then looked out of the window as something out there had just caught his eye.

"What d'you think then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson said to the ex-soldier. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," John replied in an automated fashion. Then he turned to look at the woman with a confused expression on his face.

"Oh, don't worry, dear," she said with a cheeky smile. "There's all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." She pointed in a direction with her hand. "Old Mr. Gregson has two sets of Guided Sentinels on the other side of Speedy's."

John looked up to the ceiling for half a moment and then limped to the chair with the cushion that had been put there by Sherlock. It had been an unconscious choice, as his sense of smell was guiding him towards something his burgeoning senses might have perceived as a comfort.

Mrs. Hudson, knowing that her quirky tenant, Sherlock, loved mysteries, immediately picked up the local paper and commented on the page it had been opened to. "What about these suicides, then, Sherlock, three of them?"

"Murder," he replied absentmindedly and then he continued. "…and there are four."

"Four," she asked confused, but turned to the door when she heard someone running up the steps.

"What," Sherlock asked. "What is it? Something's different with this one, you wouldn't be here otherwise."

"You know how you said that they never leave a note," the grey haired man commented. "Well this one did. Will you come?"

"Where," Sherlock asked.

"Brixton," the grey haired man in a modern trench coat asked.

"Who's on forensics," Holmes asked.

"Anderson," the detective replied with a sigh.

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock stated.

"It doesn't matter," the detective said. "Will you come?"

"Yes, but not by police car," Sherlock said trying to hold back his emotion with some effect. "I'll take a taxi." The grey-haired man nodded and half bowed to everyone in general and left the room.

John and Mrs. Hudson watched as the younger man fairly bounced about the room exclaiming, "Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note… Oh, it's Christmas," he strode out of the door.

"Look at him dashing about like that," Mrs. Hudson said. "My husband was like that, but you're more the sitting down type, like me." She said that to Dr. Watson, who just stared at the closed flat door and then she offered, "You rest your leg and I'll make us some tea…just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Damn my leg," John said loudly with a smack of his walking stick against the floor. He was immediately contrite and said, "Sorry, I'm so, so sorry." He picked up the paper that had gotten Mrs. Hudson's attention and he said, "Tea would be lovely…"

"Don't worry I understand," she patted the side of her bum and said, "I've got a hip."

"Some biscuits too, if you got them," he returned absently, as he skimmed over the article about the suicides.

"Not your housekeeper," she replied from a distance, as she left the flat to return to hers in order to make the tea and, of course, to supply some biscuits for the sweet Doctor fellow that may become one of her tenants.

John looked up immediately when he sensed that Sherlock had come back. The younger man was at the flat door. He hadn't gone that far. He put on a scarf and pulled on some black gloves.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock stated. "In fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes," John said, immediately standing up.

"Any good," Sherlock asked.

"Very good," John stated with pride. He may not be genius in a particular specialized field, but he was very good with what he did know.

"Seen a lot of injuries then," Sherlock continued. "...violent deaths and the like?"

"Well yes," John replied.

Sherlock looked at him intensely. "Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course," John's brow furrowed, as he wondered where this conversation was leading. "Yes...enough for a lifetime...far too much."

"Wanna see some more," Sherlock asked casually, but was observing the man's reaction.

John's eyes lit up as he answered with a breathy exhaled and slight trembling groan, "Oh god yes!"

"Mrs. Hudson we're leaving," Sherlock said, as he clambered down the stairs with John quickly limping behind him.

John followed the taller, younger man, saying, "We're popping out."

"What both of you," she asked coming out of her flat, not having made any tea, since she'd heard Sherlock clamber back up the stairs, loudly.

"Possible suicides... four of them," Sherlock stated with a grin, "There's no point in sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy," Mrs. Hudson responded to the younger man's enthusiasm with an understanding and motherly indulgent smile. She sensed his eagerness to be out there and using his mind. She allowed his eccentricities because of her own active Guide status. She was a low level empath and had developed an honest fondness for the quirky young, genius Guide. "It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent," Sherlock said. He gave her a hug and received a slap on his tush from the matronly woman. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" He strode out of the door with John in his wake. He lifted his arm and yelled, "Taxi!"

A cab immediately stopped and the two men got in. After a few minutes on their way, John's attention reverted back to his companion. He kept trying to figure out the younger man.

"You have questions," Sherlock stated.

"Who are you," John asked. "What do you do?"

"What do you think," Sherlock returned.

John paused and said, "I'd say private detective..."

"But…"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a Consulting Detective and Guide," Sherlock declared. "Only one in the world, I invented the job."

"What does that mean and why tack on the Guide part," John asked.

"All Guides active or GNA, need to be identified as such in their job titles in case there's ever an activated Sentinel in trouble, as is the case with Sentinels too. I have some Guide abilities, but not the patience for their mysticism and none of the empathic stuff or so I've been told. I am, however, properly registered as Activated," Sherlock explained with some bitterness, as though some past experience clouded his thoughts. "The job title also means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"But the police don't consult amateurs," John commented.

"Of course they don't," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

John looked away and then he turned back, "You said I've got a therapist."

"With a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock said. "You walk with a cane, but don't ask to sit down, as though you've forgotten about it, therefore it's psychosomatic."

"And the rest," John asked.

"When I first saw you, I noticed your military haircut and stance," Sherlock said. "You're tanned in the face and hands, but not below the wrist line, that means you were somewhere with a lot of sun, but not on vacation and that screams military, which means either Afghanistan or Iraq. You scented the room when you walked into the lab, indicating that you're an active Sentinel, but you don't have a Guide with you, which means one of two things, either you're a low level Sentinel and don't need one or that you've recently activated while in service to Queen and Country and haven't found your Guide yet. Though why the Government allowed you to leave their service as an activated Sentinel, invalided or not, I don't know, but it's a curious thing, a lovely little, tantalizing mystery."

"Something I'd rather not discuss at this point in time," John stated in a grumbling tone, which the younger man acknowledged with a nod. He then asked. "...and who said I had a brother?"

"Your phone did," Sherlock said. He held out his hand to receive it.

"My phone," John asked, as he took it out and handed it over without thought.

"Top of the line with key pad, MP and web enabled," Sherlock said, mentioning several of the phone's prominent and likely attractive features. "You've obviously just come back from a war and you're looking for a flatshare, which means that money is tight. This is not the type of phone that you'd purchase, let alone choose. It's the kind of phone that a younger person would own though and therefore it's from a relative. Someone that's close to you, not a cousin or some such because if you had them or were close to them, you wouldn't be looking for a flatshare and that means it came from a sibling..." He paused to flip the phone over.

"The rest is simple deduction based on the inscription," he gestured the phone to point out the inscribed words. '_To Harry, love Clara_'.

"This was a gift from Clara to your brother. However it's a new model, but already he's given it away, indicates the state of their relationship right there. You won't turn to him for help, despite his request for you to '_keep in touch_', which is indicated by his giving you his used yet relatively new phone. Perhaps you didn't like his drinking, perhaps you liked his wife, but in any case the scratches on the back shows that your phone had a previous owner, someone who carried it in his pockets with keys and such. You are meticulous in your dress and would never have let it get into such a condition. Women take more care such things, so this came from someone is close to you, therefore, sibling and brother."

"How did you know about the drinking," John asked.

"Shot in the dark," Sherlock smirked. "Good one though. The marks around the re-charge port show that shaky, unsteady hands missed the mark when trying to plug it in before going to bed at night. You'll never see those kinds of marks on the phone belonging to a younger sober man." He handed the phone back and then said, "There you see, you were right."

"About what," John asked, as he stared at his phone catching all the clues that Sherlock had pointed out, stunned that so much could be deduced by scratches, odd marks and an engraving.

"The Police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock said, as he turned to look out of the window. He braced himself for the usual insults that came from someone who didn't like the fact that he could _see_ so much.

"That was...," John paused as he searched for the right word, "Amazing," as he looked at the younger man with some expression akin to awe.

Sherlock looked back at him. He was surprised and had to ask, "You think so?"

"Of course it was," Watson told him. "Extraordinary! It was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock blinked and said, "That's not what people usually say."

Watson was curious and so he asked, "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock huffed and half-grinned.

John just grinned in reply and looked away at the slight surprised and mildly petulant look that the younger man had on his face. It was such an expressive face despite the attempt to remain mostly expressionless.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

The cab soon pulled up the police cordoned area, flanked by the flashing lights on several police cars. John paid the cabbie and soon they were walking up to the bright white and blue tape.

They stepped away from the main street, when Sherlock turned to John and asked, "Did I get anything wrong?"

John limped his way alongside the tall young man. "Harry and me don't get on. Never have." He confirmed. "Clara and Harry split up...um...three months ago, and they're getting a divorce...and Harry _is_ a drinker."

Sherlock was quite pleased with his deductions and said, "Spot on then! I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"_Harry_ is short for Harriet," John said with a smirk. "She's older than me by a couple of years too!"

"Sister," Sherlock growled out with a frown. "Older? There's always something..." He lifted the barricade tape and walked past a youngish woman of exotic colouring and descent.

"Freak," she hissed to the Consulting Detective. "Ah...and where do you think you going," she asked Dr. Watson.

"With him," John said, as he pointed to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned back when he noticed that his companion hadn't followed. He held up the blue and white police tape and repeated, "He's a friend of mine and he's with me."

"A friend," she said. "Since when do you rate a friend?" She turned to John and asked, "What...did _he_, follow you home or something?"

John just scowled at young woman's attitude.

"John this is AG Sergeant Sally Donovan," Sherlock said by way of introduction. He looked at the woman and repeated, "He's with me."

"Fine," she said and then she used her hand radio. "Freak's here and I'm bringing him in."

A weaselly looking man came out of the abandoned building, wearing a baby blue full sized cover suit. "This is a crime scene and I don't want it contaminated."

"Ah...Anderson," Sherlock said his name with a mocking tone, as he gave the area a once over look around. "...and will your wife be away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson replied. "Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock replied.

"My deodorant," Anderson said in a questioning tone.

Sherlock looked at him and said in a surprised tone, "It's for men."

"Well of course it's for men," Anderson replied. "I'm wearing it."

"So's Sgt. Donovan," Sherlock returned. The other man turned to look at the woman in question and as he did so, the Consulting Detective and Guide commented. "Oof, I think it just vaporized. May I go in now?"

"Now listen here," Anderson pointed. "I don't want you implying..."

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock stated, as he started to walk away. "You probably had a pleasant evening together. So, I suppose she just stuck around and scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees."

John had to look. He pursed his lips together to prevent the grin that threatened to escape. He quickly followed the taller man. It was then that he noticed the matched scent when it had been pointed out, but he was surprised that it was something that a Guide could have noticed. He quickly caught on to the fact that Sherlock was, obviously, no ordinary Guide and wondered why the man hadn't been bonded with a Sentinel.

"You have to put one of those on," Sherlock said to John. He pointed to a package that contained the same full sized protective suit that the forensic examiner outside had been wearing.

"What about you," John asked, when he finished zipping it up. He was ignored as the younger man, jogged up the stairs to the scene of the crime. "What's AG mean?"

"Active Guide," Sherlock told him.

"Who's this then," DI Lestrade asked.

"He's a Doctor," Sherlock replied, absentmindedly. He scanned the room and then began to make internal notes related to the body before him. "He's with me."

"He shouldn't be here," Lestrade said. "I'm breaking every rule by letting you in here."

Sherlock stood up, looked at the GNA Sentinel and said, "Because you need me."

"Yes I do, God help me," Lestrade said. He looked to John, waved at the air in general as he said, "Oh, please yourself."

The ex-military man walked up to Sherlock who stood up and asked him, "Well, what do you think Dr. Watson?"

John asked in a low tone, "What am I doing here?"

"Helping me, make a point," Sherlock replied in a tone just as low.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," John said, as his eyes stopped and were riveted at the hint of moisture on the back of the woman's jacket. It was his first zone out.

"Yeah," Sherlock answered, drawing John back to the here and now, so quickly that the Doctor didn't think he'd zoned on anything because he hadn't sensed a lag in time. "Well...this is more fun."

"Fun," John's tone incredulous, "There's a woman lying there, dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock commented. "I was hoping you'd go deeper."

John sighed and then he approached the body. He crouched down and with his gloved hands he did a few checks for petechial hemorrhage in the eyes, stippling at the fingernails and a few other general medical observations. He was still stuck on the fact that the woman's coat was wet, until he leant forward to sniff her breath.

One deep breath and he was riveted by the scent of her perfume. There were layers to the scent he found. He detected something else in the scent and he leaned closer to her mouth. He went deeper and completely zoned on the smell of the poison.

"John, come back to me," Sherlock said low in his ear, with a slight touch to the other man's arm. He was surprised at the depth of the fugue state that the Doctor had gone into with just one sniff.

John's awareness returned, but he blurted the few things that came to him in order to help Sherlock's cover for the need to have a second opinion or was that just for someone that willingly followed him around. It was too soon to tell at this point.

"She took something medicinal," he said. "It had the same sense of odour that comes from powerful drugs, usually used for patients with terminal illnesses. It was mixed with various other ingredients made to mask it and probably to render it more lethal. However, the medicinal markers are quite strong."

Sherlock's eyes sparked at the thought that John could actually smell the kind of drug that the victim took. "That says a lot about the killer," he observed. "Go on."

"She came from someplace that recently rained because her coat is wet and her hair smells of damp, but it hasn't been raining here at all today. She also smells like she's been in proximity with other people and there's a lingering scent of exhaust smoke and track oil that I usually associate with any travel by tube or train," John said. "I can't give you more than that."

"That's all right," Sherlock said. "That's good enough, well done." He was pleased that someone had noticed something so obvious, but he figured that it was the Sentinel part of John's make-up rather than something he'd actually noticed in an automated fashion, like himself.

"No it's not," Lestrade said. "What else is there?"

"She's German," Anderson said. "Rache is the German word for revenge."

Sherlock stood up and shut the door in the face of the hated forensic examiner. "She wasn't German."

"What was she," John asked.

"She was a serial adulterer, here for one night from Cardiff, judging by the size of her case," Sherlock started to ramble.

"Oh god," Lestrade said with a huff. "If you're making this up..."

"Look at her," Sherlock said. "Really look at her. Her hair and nails are done up nicely. Her hands are manicured so she has an office type of job. I'm thinking day-trader or she's in media of some kind judging from the alarming amount of pink that she's wearing. Her jewelry all polished and clean except for her wedding band, which clearly shows the state of her marriage, since the only polishing it gets is when she working it off of her finger. Her jacket is wet, but her umbrella isn't. The collar of her coat is also wet, which means that she's come from someplace that had rain too strong for her to use the umbrella. Just as John pointed out, there was no rain in London. And where has there been heavy rain recently to indicate a short distance of travel," the younger man twiddled with his cell phone and then showed the results. "Cardiff!"

"That's fantastic," John exclaimed with an awed expression and small smile that peeked out involuntarily.

"Do you know that you do that out loud," Sherlock observed.

He was again pleased that someone was praising his abilities, since he knew that something of this nature just couldn't last. But at least he was aware that the expressions he received from John were truly genuine, which might make their flat arrangement all the better. He had to hope that it would work. Plus he wanted to test his flatmate's Sentinel abilities, but that request could wait for another day.

"Sorry," John replied. "I'll shut up."

"No it's...fine," Sherlock said with a pause, as though he'd had to think about it for a little while. He looked around the room and asked, "So where's her case."

"Case," Lestrade asked. "What case?"

"Her suitcase," Sherlock said. "Smallish size, we also need to find out who Rachel was?"

"Rachel," Dr. Watson asked. "Is that what she was writing?"

"No she was writing an obscure German word for revenge," Sherlock rattled off quickly. "Of course she was writing Rachel. Now where's her case?"

"What case," Lestrade re-iterated. "There was no case."

"How do you know what size it was," John asked.

"How do you guys live with your funny little brains," Sherlock asked in a genuinely shocked tone. "Look at the back of her right leg. There are small splash marks which indicate she had a small case with her. Anything larger and the marks would be different. So where's the case, what have you done with it?"

"There was no case," Lestrade answered again.

Sherlock took off down the stairs and shouted for the case. He also muttered, "We've got a serial killer on our hands. Love those, there's always something to look forward to."

"What are you talking about," Lestrade yelled down at Sherlock.

"I don't know how he's doing it," Sherlock stated. "They're murders all of them. Find out who Rachel is." He then explained that the case had to exist.

"Just look at her," he told the policemen and John. "She coordinates her clothes and her shoes..." He paused, clapped his hands in glee and looked like he'd been handed the keys to heaven. "Of course that's it." He took off down the stairs and left John behind.

"What is it," Lestrade called down.

"PINK!" Sherlock shouted back up the stairs and then took off into the streets.

John sighed and slowly made his way down the stairs. His limp, psychosomatic or not had been hurting him at the moment. He'd been left behind. It was close to that moment, that he was determined to never be left behind again.

'_Cheeky bastard was right, though_,' John thought, as he took off the crime scene suit and left the area. '_This is far more interesting, but what is this going to do to my chosen career. I suppose I could go for retraining, but doing what and with my activated status, how?_' He watched some of the forensics people gathering some evidence.

John walked towards the barricade that was still manned by the irritated AG Sgt. Donovan. She looked him over and said, "He's gone you know."

"Yes," John said. "I figured as much. How do I call a taxi? You know because of my leg."

She lifted the barricade and said, "Try the main road, a couple of blocks that way."

"Thanks," John said.

"You're not his friend," she observed. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm..." John paused to think about it. "I'm nobody. I've just met him."

"Okay! Let me give you a bit of advice then," she said. "Stay away from that guy."

"Why," John asked.

"You know why he's here?" Sally asked. She didn't let him answer, but continued. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off on it. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

John just looked at the woman and the attitude she projected. He knew it wasn't true because in the whole history of Guides and Sentinels, there has never been a case where a GNA or activated Guide went out and actually murdered someone. But he asked her the question she'd expected him to voice, "Why would he do that?"

"Cause he's a psychopath," she told him. "Psychopaths get bored. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She sent the parting shot as the older man walked away from her and her biased and very, skewed, plus quite unnecessary opinions of his new flatmate.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**TBC...**


	4. Chapter 4

**CH 4**

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

John Watson had chosen to walk part of the way down the main street he'd been directed to. His thoughts were in flux and he wondered where the need to remain close to Sherlock came from. He had his suspicions, but wasn't ready to test any theory on the matter. It was just too soon to declare his Guide to the SC and his Sentinel abilities were not constant either.

'_I need to do some more reading on the subject,_' he thought. '_Maybe I will take Mike up on his offer of a talk with his wife, as long as she can promise not to report anything to the SC._'

As he walked home a strange phenomena happened with the public telephone system, every time he was close to walking by one, it started ringing, but stopped as soon as he was passed it. He didn't know whether to answer the phones or just let them ring.

Finally his curiosity got the better of him and he answered one that rang in a classic red booth as opposed to one in a local store or café that he'd just passed.

"Hello," he answered in a questioning tone. He didn't like the voice on the phone telling him to look to the manipulated city cameras, but he figured that anyone with that kind of influence should be listened to, especially when they told him to get into the black car that had just pulled up to the curb. He didn't trust the driver or the woman seated next to him whose attention was focussed primarily on her Blackberry device.

John hesitated for a moment and then figured that he should go along with whoever was playing this game. It was, indeed, a game, but he didn't feel threatened until they had arrived at their destination and he had a quick military look around. There was a semi-familiar scent clinging to the man before him and he just did not like what it implied.

"Welcome, Doctor Watson," the tall man said, as John approached him with a pronounced limp, he had been walking quite a bit that day. "You must be tired, do sit down." He pointed to a chair just in front of him with a black umbrella that had been hooked on his arm.

"No," John shook his head in such a way as to scan the area without seeming to again. "You know, I've got a phone. I mean this is clever and all that. But, ah, you could just have called me. You know…on my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place," he gentleman twirled his umbrella cane for emphasis to the area they were currently in. "Your leg must be hurting, sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John said in a semi-petulant, defiant tone of voice. He knew that sitting down in this kind of situation was extremely dangerous and monumentally stupid too. It could also be seen as a sign of weakness, so he remained standing, thank you very much.

"You don't seem very afraid," the man observed.

"You don't seem very frightening," John told him.

"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier," the man seemed to sneer at that. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one," John admitted, but in his mind, heart or soul, he didn't know which it was, he was slowly developing a need to change all of that sometime in the very near future. This man before him felt like a threat to that, even as he continued to answer. "I barely know him. I met him…mm...yesterday."

"Hmm…and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together," the man stated. "Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you," John demanded to know, but suspected that he wasn't going to receive an answer.

"An interested party," the man said. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

John snorted and asked, "What's that then?"

"An enemy," the man replied calmly.

"An enemy," John echoed in question.

"In his mind certainly," the man said. His tone was pompous and condescending. "If you were to ask him he'd probably say his archenemy. He does so love to be dramatic."

"Well thank God you're above all that," John said sarcastically with a very minor twitch to his eyes, as he stopped them from rolling at the dramatic tone that the other man wanted to set with this whole twisted environment.

John then received a text message: _**Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient. SH**_

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes," the gentleman asked.

"I could be wrong," John began. "But I think that that's none of your business." He could scent the familial connection between the two men and the scent was making him lose some of his irritation at the situation.

"It could be," the man said.

John replied with a shake of his head, "It really couldn't." His phone buzzed again and this time the message was: _**If inconvenient, come anyway. SH**_

"You're very loyal, very quickly," the other man observed.

"No... I'm not," John countered. "I'm just not interested."

The man gave a soft chuckle as he pulled out an ominous seeming little note book. "_Trust issues_, it says here," he seemed to read from a page. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him," John said.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," the man observed the stubborn stance. "…and yet, you plan to live with this seeming stranger at…" He paused dramatically. "Two-hundred and twenty-one…B Baker Street, and all within a few short hours of becoming acquainted with him?"

"Are we done," John barked his question softly.

"You tell me," the gentleman said with a direct and unblinking stare.

"We're done," John said, as he turned around and marched away as best he could.

"I imagine that people have already warned you to stay away from him," the man said in order to halt John's escape from the area. "But I can see from your left hand that that's not going to happen."

"My what," John whirled around to ask.

"Show me," the man demanded.

He reached out to touch John, but the Doctor wanted nothing to touch him. "Don't…" he pulled his hand back and the gentleman nodded his head.

John put his hand out again. This time assured that it wouldn't be touched by this interfering and infuriating stranger. "Remarkable," the man said.

"What is," John asked, after checking another text from his new and suspiciously inconsiderate flatmate. 

_**Could be dangerous. SH**_

The gentleman continued his train of thought and revelation to Doctor Watson, "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." John quickly pulled his hand away and nodded. "Your therapist thinks its posttraumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service and the by the fact that you are still _only_ a GNA Sentinel…"

"Who the hell are you," John demanded again, as he tucked his hand in his pocket, wrapping it around his phone like a security blanket in the face of this odd interrogation. "How do you know all that?"

"Fire her," the gentleman said adamantly. "She's got it all wrong. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." John blinked and felt surprised by that statement. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…You miss it." He paused and then said, "Welcome back."

The man turned to the left and started to walk away, twirling his umbrella. He couldn't leave without a parting shot, "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

The pretty woman that had been in the vehicle stepped out of it and said, without looking up from her computer tablet, "I'm to take you home."

John thought about that as he limped up to the black vehicle. "No," he said. "You'll take me to the address I tell you to and you'll drop me off there."

The woman looked up at his sharp tone and nodded once, before getting back into the vehicle.

John had chosen to get dropped off at the corner of a street a few blocks away from his half-way house, lodging. He was still registered as living there until he notified his Government and the Sentinel Council about the change of his residential address. His decision was partially made, but he needed to know just what Sherlock's plans were regarding their living arrangements and the younger man being difficult about being pinned down on the subject. He had his suspicions that it was because of an active police case rather than some other subject.

The vehicle drove away, but he thought he could distinctly hear the whirring buzz of the closest city camera turning to tune in on him. He ignored it in favour of retrieving something that he believed he'd need based on Sherlock's last text message. It wouldn't do for the camera to catch onto the fact that John was no longer GNA, for the suited interrogator.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

An hour later, John hobbled up the stairs of 221B Baker Street and walked in to find his potential new flatmate, lying on his back with his hands folded in a prayer, except for the index fingers that lay on the man's expressive mouth.

John was confused. He did a cursory check of the apartment. Then he double checked the location of the city cameras from the window next to Sherlock. "Well," John asked. "Here I am. I assume it's important."

"It is," Sherlock said. "Your phone," he said and held out his hand to receive it.

"What about your phone," John asked, even as he handed over the little electronic device. He watched the younger man sandwich it between his two hands and listened for what he was going to learn would be a typical Sherlock thing to do and say.

"It's over there," Sherlock pointed in some direction. "I was too busy thinking. I even called out to Mrs. Hudson, but I don't think she heard me."

John sighed and then he asked, "What are you doing and why does the place smell like nicotine without the cigarette smoke and ash?"

"Nicotine patch," Sherlock answered. He was secretly pleased that John had scented it, but he had a niggling itch in the back of his mind about something else in his flat that was securely hidden away. He hoped that his new flatmate wouldn't seek it out. "Helps me think," he explained. "It's impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days...bad news for brain work."

"Good news for breathing," the Doctor replied.

"Ah, breathing," Sherlock said. "Breathing's boring." He shifted his position and the Doctor noticed that there were a number of patches on the younger man's arm.

"Is that three patches," John asked. He was astonished that the younger man would endanger his health in such a way.

"It's a three patch problem," Sherlock stated simply.

John looked out of the window again, this time trying to note the dangers in their environment or from the people on the street.

"What is it," Sherlock asked. He was curious about his flatmate's odd, security like behaviour. There was no doubt in his mind that John would become his flatmate.

"I just met a friend of yours," John replied in a distracted tone.

Sherlock was surprised at that and echoed, "A friend?"

"An enemy," John corrected.

"Oh," Sherlock replied in an unsurprised tone and asked, "Which one?"

"Your archenemy," John told him. "According to him...do people even have archenemies anymore?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me," Sherlock asked with a frown.

John grimaced, thinking back on that part of the conversation he had with the man, he didn't like the insinuation that he could be bought for any price to spy on someone. He answered truthfully, though, "Yes."

"Did you take it," Sherlock asked, curious about what his new flatmate was going to say. He didn't know what the answer would be, but he had his own hope about the situation.

"No," John replied.

"Pity," Sherlock commented. "We could have split the fee, think it through next time." He was secretly pleased that his new flatmate had turned the seeming stranger down, though. He knew of others that had taken the money and he never trusted their motives for being in his proximity after that.

John huffed and then asked, "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now," Sherlock said. He then instructed John to type out a text on behalf of the victim that had been dressed in, quite frankly, a lot of pink, whose name was Jennifer Wilson. After which, the young Guide nearly leapt up from the couch. He pulled out a small pink suitcase, crouched in front of it with both his feet on the chair and stared at it.

"Wait a minute," John said, after having sat down in the chair opposite of Sherlock. "That's her case...the pink lady's case."

"Yes obviously," Sherlock said. He folded himself into, what looked like a crowded position on the chair, but he said, "Oh perhaps I should mention that I didn't kill her."

"Of course you didn't, she didn't smell like you and no Guide in recorded history has ever murdered anyone," John stated in a huffed tone of voice. "Wait, how did you…" He paused and then said, "Pink." He looked at it again and said, "You found it because you knew it would be pink?"

"Well, of course, it had to be pink," Sherlock's eyes rolled, as he sneered.

John's mouth was opened in surprised. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"It's because you're an idiot," Sherlock said. "Oh don't be like that," he said to the Doctor, when he received a hurt expression. "No, no, no, don't be like that. Practically everyone is an idiot."

John paused to think about it and realized that the young man's quickness of mind may be a marvel, but he barely had anyone to keep up with him when he made deductions of this nature. He sighed and then asked, "Have you talked to the police about it?"

"Four people are dead, there isn't time to talk to the police," Sherlock said. He got up and started getting dressed to go out again. "You hungry?"

"Why are you talking to me then," John said, as he remained seated from his exhausted walk back to the Baker Street flat. He'd taken a cab and requested to be dropped off a few blocks away. His leg didn't feel quite so troublesome at the moment, but he wondered just where Sherlock wanted to go now. It looked like the young man had boundless energy.

Sherlock looked up from where he'd been buttoning his jacket and searching for his scarf. He glanced at the mantelpiece with a surprised expression and said, "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

John huffed, looked to the surprisingly empty mantelpiece and grinned slightly, "So basically I'm filling in for your skull."

"Relax," Sherlock smiled and continued. "You're doing fine." He noticed that the other man still hadn't moved from the chair. "Well?"

"Well what," Watson asked in a semi-frustrated tone. He was trying to shut down one of his senses that had flared.

"Well you could just sit there and watch crap telly," the younger man suggested.

"What," John asked, surprised. "You want me to come with you? Now?"

"I like the company," Sherlock confessed. "I think better when I talk aloud," he grinned cheekily. "The skull just attracts attention."

John shook his head and since he hadn't removed his jacket yet, he chose to follow the man, '_Again,_' he thought. '_Just where are we going, now?_'

However, he listened to Sherlock talk about his feelings…well not quite feelings, but his clear deductions about the current, baffling police case. He looked around and was grateful that the man was taking his time, as they walked down the side-walk. He had to ask, "Where are we going?"

"Northumberland Street's about a five minute walk from here," Sherlock told him.

John rolled his eyes and thought, _'Of course it is. No wonder we're going there, considering the text I just sent. He's probably trying to find the killer through some kind of text trap._'

However he just asked, "You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

"No, I think he's brilliant enough," Sherlock replied with enthusiasm. "I love the brilliant ones they're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why," John asked, as he hobbled along.

"Appreciation…applause…at long last, the spotlight," Sherlock said. "That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

John smirked at the man beside him, who didn't notice the expression because he was too busy appreciating the deviousness of the criminal that they were hunting. He shook his head and thought, _'That's the real reason I'm here then. You need me to be __**your**__ audience._' He paused to look in a shop window and came to a startling conclusion. '_I'm willing to be his audience...bloody Sentinel DNA! __**Some compulsions include the need to please the Guide**__, that's what the basic pamphlet said._'

Sherlock held the door open to a quaint little Italian Restaurant for his companion.

John walked in and immediately thought that the place really was quaint. There was a small bar to the right of him, near the cash register, small tables with red and white checked table cloths. Some tables had no tablecloths, but were of high-polished wood, which made them easier to maintain and yet the mixed atmosphere only told him that the place was a cozy one.

A robust looking man walked up to them with a grin and said, "Sherlock, my favourite customer, welcome!"

"Angelo," Sherlock said, with a quick sweep of his eyes. He found a small both by the door and sat down. He perched there to look out of the window.

"Have a seat there then," Angelo said. "I'll be with you in a minute. Let me find a candle for you and your date then."

"I'm not his date," John said to the man, who seemed to vanish and with a look like he refused to listen to that kind of talk. He sighed and then sat down in the banquette chair with his back to the window. It was not a position he liked, but somehow he trusted that Sherlock would notice danger far more quickly than any normal person. He noticed that the younger man still hadn't removed his coat, but was seated in such a way as to view the road.

"There you are," Angelo said, as he came back with a cheap table candle. He set it down with a comment about how it was more romantic with the candle and then he told his story about how Sherlock had saved him from prison time, which the Consulting Detective countered with the fact that the man had gone to jail, but it wasn't on a charge of the double-murder he'd initially been accused of.

"You did go to jail," Sherlock said and then explained it to John. "I was able to convince the police that Angelo couldn't have been the murderer because he'd been in the opposite end of town committing a burglary."

John chuckled at that and smiled at the jovial man, who seemed pleased by those turn of events. He told them, "Sherlock anything, on house for you and your date. Your waiter will be with you in a moment. Enjoy!"

"I'm not his..." John watched the Italian walk away. He shook his head and thought, '_Forget it. It's not up to me to burst his happy bubble._' He looked at the menu and ordered something that would fill him nicely, but not overly much. He had a gut feeling that his companion was about to make him follow again and this time he'd hopefully be ready for it, if his leg would let him.

He ate his meal with a renewed appreciation for the subtlety of flavours. His sense of taste noted the texture of the fresh made pasta against the thick creamy sauce that contained hints of spices. He monitored his senses to prevent being overwhelmed by his sense of taste and smell. He looked to his younger flatmate and grounded himself in the sight and scent of him. He enjoyed his meal, while his companion searched for something out of the window.

John knew he wasn't going to find out anything about his flatmate unless he asked, so figured the best place to start was to ask about any current relationships. He needed to know this before he got further involved with the younger man. "So, have you got a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend," Sherlock's brow furrowed at the thought of some female coming between him and his cases. His college experiences with them had been just enough to let him know he didn't need them or their like in his life. "No," he answered. "Not really my area."

"Oh, right then," John paused to think and then asked. "Do you have a boyfriend, which is fine by the way..."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock's head whipped to look at his flatmate.

"So," John asked again. "Have you got a boyfriend?" He took another bite of his meal.

"No," Sherlock replied to the question in a neutral tone. He turned his attention back to look out at the street and the people that walked on it.

"Right...okay then," John said. "You're unattached, just like me." He took another bite of his meal and muttered, "That's fine...good..."

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to register the comment and then he looked to the man seated with him. He had barely registered Angelo's insinuations, but he could see how John's previous question could lead him to consider... '_That'll have to be nipped in the bud,_' he thought. '_I can't let him think that I'd ever, but then again he is aesthetically pleasing in that strange sort of way that a short man fascinates taller women, but still..._'

"John, um...," he paused to quickly process the words he wanted to say. Then he said, "I think you should know that consider myself married to my work and that I _am_ an active Guide, so while I am flattered by your interest..."

"No," John interrupted him with a choked cough from the sudden sharp, burn of garlic that he'd just tasted, as his emotions jumped in surprise at Sherlock's interpretation of the conversation. "No," he repeated.

"I'm not really looking for anyone," Sherlock continued on.

"No," John repeated sharply. "I'm not asking...no. I was just saying that it's fine. It's all fine." He noticed the other man's confused expression and then he stated. "Just standard questions to get to know someone and it wasn't information that you've offered about yourself when we met. Not just anyone can deduce things like you and in our case, it needed to be asked, since I still don't know much about you, other than you play the violin and can be quiet for days on end."

"Oh," Sherlock replied with a slight flush of something that could have been mistaken for embarrassment in a normal person, but in his case it was from the fact that he hated when he over-deduced a situation.

"Sentinel," John asked, after he taken and swallowed a cautious bite of his pasta. His taste buds had regulated once again.

"What," Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Do you have a Sentinel in the background somewhere," John asked. "I wouldn't want to intrude on his or her territory, if you know what I mean? That's a much more different situation, then if you were in a relationship with someone or what your sexual orientation was. I have to ask because I'm not looking for a temporary flatshare for a few months, only to be kicked out because some lost Sentinel comes seeking to claim you as their Guide. I'm not really made for the transient lifestyle."

"No, Sentinel," Sherlock replied in a bitter tone. "Like a said before, I'm not in tune with the mysticism and all that entails to being an active Guide. I barely have any type of empathic ability and that's caused me no end of troubles with the GC, because apparently all Guides register some type of ability of that nature, but nothing truly registers with me." He refused to look at John's face when he said that, as he'd been certain that he'd see some kind of pity the man's face and he didn't want to see that. "Emotions of others confuse me and I don't really register what my own are, either, since they've been irrelevant to me and are unnecessary for me to work my cases."

"So what if you don't register an empathic ability," John said in a heated tone. He'd been through something similar because he'd barely registered on the Sentinel Scale system that the Council had; even listed as GNA. "It doesn't take away the fact that you are an activated Guide and are eligible to have a Sentinel recognize you as such. The Council can't determine who your Sentinel will be either, not based on some kind of invasive medical test."

"You know about those," Sherlock asked and then shook his head and continued. "Of course you do, you're a doctor and you activated in a war zone. You had to have been tested and must have seen things."

"Like I told you," John said, as he pushed his plate away, leaving behind a quarter of it, since he no longer had an appetite for it despite the pleasure he'd initially had at the beginning of his meal. "I've seen many things, far too much to ignore the documented fact that nature makes the right Guide for the right Sentinel and vice versa." He didn't mention that he'd only recently activated and it was because of younger man's presence, not the war.

Sherlock smiled shyly at him and received one in return, until something up Northumberland Street caught his eye and he took off.

John's internal determination to never be left behind again, made him follow the tall fellow. They ran down streets, through alleys, up fire escapes and even over rooftops to get ahead of the yellow London Cab. When they finally caught up, Sherlock babbled various informative bits about client seated in the back. He flashed an inspector badge and waved the American away.

"Where did you get this," John asked as he took the badge from the younger man. "GNA Sentinel Detective Inspector Lestade?"

"Yeah," Sherlock grinned. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying." He looked back at the cabbie's client who pointed in their direction, as the man talked to a real uniform wearing cop. "Ready to go?"

John grinned and said, "Ready when you are."

They took off, running away from the scene. They managed to evade any awkward questions that may have arisen from their unorthodox car chase, since the young copper in blue couldn't determine where they had been going or had gone.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**TBC...**


	5. Chapter 5

**CH 5**

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

They'd managed to return to the Baker Street address, nearly winded from their invigorating run. They laughed together and huddled in the entrance way, slightly breathless.

Still chuckling, John observed, "That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've done."

"No it wasn't," Sherlock said. "You invaded Afghanistan." The two men giggled like boys.

"That wasn't just me," John sobered slightly. He breathed in deeply and asked, "Why didn't we go back to the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out," Sherlock replied. "It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there," John asked.

"Oh, just passing the time and proving point."

"What point," John asked.

"You," Sherlock said with a gentler smile. He turned to shout down the hall, "Mrs. Hudson, John will be taking that second bedroom after all."

"Says who," John asked with a confused frown.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock replied as he turned to listen to Mrs. Hudson come out of her flat with a worried expression.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. She'd wrung her hands and asked, "What have you done?"

John was pre-occupied by the sudden knock at the door, but not by the man standing there. He'd smelled the restaurant owner come up the short stoop.

"Hello there Doctor," Angelo said. "Sherlock texted me, he said you'd forgot this." He held out the walking cane that John had been using for his limp, ever since he'd been discharged from his unit and army responsibilities.

"Thank you," John said and looked back through the door. "Thank you," he repeated and the man waved at him, as he returned to his restaurant. Dr. Watson ran back into the flat and followed his flatmate, who had raced up the stairs.

Sherlock strode into the flat and demanded, "What are you doing here?"

John had followed and noticed that Detective Inspector Lestrade was sitting, relaxed and calm, in Sherlock's chair.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case," Lestrade told them. "I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock growled out.

"You can't withhold evidence," Lestrade returned. "And I didn't break into your flat?"

"What do you call this, then," Sherlock demanded.

"It's a drugs bust," Lestrade told them.

"Seriously," John stated, as he came into the room. "This guy? A junkie? Have you met him?"

"John," Sherlock warned.

"I'm pretty sure that you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything that you could call recreational."

"John," Sherlock barked at his new flatmate to get him to stop talking. "You might want to shut up now," he said in a low tone.

"Yeah, but come on," John said and then he really looked at the younger man. The clenched jaw and the tensed muscles all sang to his senses that his flatmate wanted to stop the conversation cold. "No...," he said.

"What," Sherlock asked without going further into the question.

"You..." John was just shocked by what he'd just learned and then his senses kicked in. '_Bloody hell,_' he thought. '_I'm the one that just moved in...this flat isn't clean._'

"Shut up," Sherlock growled at him and then he said, "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No," Lestrade agreed and said. "Anderson's my sniffer dog."

"What An...," Sherlock looked around quickly and found the man in question, routing through some cupboards in his kitchen. "Anderson, what are you doing on a drugs bust?"

"Oh," the man in question replied in a smarmy, grinning tone. "I volunteered!"

"They all did," the Detective Inspector said. "They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're all very keen."

"We found the case," Anderson pointed at it gleefully. "According to someone, '_the murderer has the case_', and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath!"

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson," Sherlock sneered with full contempt against the weaselly, rat-faced man. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!"

"So you what? You just set up this pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Sherlock glared at the Detective Inspector, while he was outraged at the fact that policemen were rifling through his flat. He had noticed that not one of them was a Sentinel, for which he was grateful, yet it was the principal of the thing.

"It stops being pretend," Lestrade stated. "If, they find anything!"

"I am clean!" Sherlock declared, loudly for everyone in the room to hear.

"Is your flat," Lestrade questioned. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," Sherlock said, as he rolled up his sleeve to reveal the nicotine patch on his arm.

Lestrade did the same and exposed a similar patch on his own arm. He only stated, "Neither do I."

AG Donovan had just come out from another part of the kitchen and held up a jar with several eyes floating in some kind of liquid. "Are these human eyes?"

"Put those back," Sherlock motioned to her. He knew that she was a low level Guide, but even low levelled ones got lucky from time to time with their empathic ability to sense a person's panicking emotions. That's why she was a good police person.

Sally's expression soured, as she said, "They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment," Sherlock stated with a glare at the woman for questioning the contents of his microwave. He turned to look back at the Inspector and asked, "What did you find out about Rachel?"

Lestrade just rolled his sleeve back down and said, "She was Jennifer's dead daughter."

Sherlock caught the past tense and asked, "When did she die? What were the circumstances of her death? There has to be a reason why she scratched that name."

"There were no circumstances to Rachel's death, technically she never existed," Lestrade explained. "Rachel is Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock huffed. "That gives me nothing to go on. The death of a child so many years ago is inconsequential to this case."

"Sherlock," John said in a tone that caused the younger man to look at him.

"What," Sherlock said and then looked at the faces of the people in the room. He noted that they looked offended or angry, he could never tell which. He turned back to John, who only looked at him with concern and asked, "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah," John confirmed.

"But think about it John," Sherlock pressed. "If you were dying, would you be thinking about a child that died so many years ago, you'd have had the time to work through your grief by now. What would you really be thinking?"

"Please God don't let me die," John answered him.

"Use your imagination," Sherlock huffed.

"I don't have to use my imagination," John replied with a shadowed look to his face, as some thoughts of the war crept back to the forefront of his mind, with absolutely wretched timing.

"Rachel has another meaning then," Sherlock said softly. He blinked and frowned. The noise of the intruding officers was beginning to bother him. "Shut up everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way you're putting me off."

"What," the man said. "My face is?"

Lestrade commended them, "Everybody quite and still. Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh for God's sake..." Anderson huffed.

"Your back now," DI Lestrade said. "Please!" The man grudgingly turned so that his back was to the living room.

Sherlock concentrated on all the details of the case and realized that he'd overlooked a small thing. "Oh, she was clever. All the best of the Yard and the dead woman was smarter than all of you combined. Rachel wasn't the name of her daughter."

"What does it mean, then," John asked.

Sherlock moved to sit down at his laptop and said, "John read me the web address on the label."

John rattled off the long address, as Sherlock explained to them, "She was a successful business woman, probably traveling for her job, as a media representative. Plus juggling all those lovers she wouldn't just leave that information lying around; not at home or at work. She did all her business with her phone and she had to have a good one. Meaning not only was it top of the line, but a _Smartphone_, meaning it's GPS enabled." He typed quickly and then stood up to continue informing the police what they had missed. "With that address, all we needed is her password, _Rachel_, and we'd be able to locate it and with it the murderer. She knew she was going to her death, so she planted her phone."

John sat down in front of the computer to wait for the signal to focus on the phone's location, while Sherlock told their land lady that he hadn't ordered a cab for the second time that night. "Sherlock," he said in a confused tone. He called out again this time getting the man's attention by the tone of his voice. "Sherlock!"

"What," Sherlock asked.

"The phone's here," John said. "It's here, in Baker Street."

"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back," Lestrade said. "And it fell out somewhere."

"What?" Sherlock said in a questioning tone. "And I didn't notice it?" He stressed the word, "_ME!_ Not notice something so basic. The killer's got the phone, but it's somewhere in Baker Street, that just doesn't make any sense at all." He was confused about it.

Mrs. Hudson hovered in the doorway, but Sherlock immediately noticed the shadowed figure behind her. He blinked and then received a text message on his own phone that said: _**Come with Me!**_

"I need to get a bit of fresh air," Sherlock said in a distracted tone.

John didn't like it. He sensed the presence of another person in the flat, but he couldn't tell if the person was new or if it was just one of the '_volunteered_' policemen that he hadn't noted before. He watched the younger man leave.

Outside on the street a Cabbie, held a pink phone in his hand. He pocketed it, as soon as Sherlock saw it and stepped out closing the door to the flat. The strange man smiled and said, "Taxi for Sherlock Holmes."

"I didn't order a taxi," Sherlock said.

"Doesn't mean you don't need one," the Cabbie replied.

"You're the one who stopped outside of Northumberland Street," Sherlock confirmed. "It was you, not your passenger."

"See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie," the man said. "It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an' ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

"Is this a confession," Sherlock asked.

"Oh yeah! I'll tell you what else," the Cabbie told him. "If you call the coppers, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Cause you're not going to do that," the man said.

Sherlock looked at the other man and asked, "Am I not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. They killed themselves. I only spoke to them and they killed themselves," the Cabbie told him. "If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing: I will never tell you what I said to them."

"No one else will die though," Sherlock stated. "I believe they'll call that a good result."

"But you won't ever understand how those people died," the Cabbie said. "What kind of result do _you_ care about?"

Sherlock paused for half a moment to think about what was being offered by the obvious serial killer. "If I wanted to understand, what would you do?"

The Cabbie grinned, since he knew that he had this man dangling from his fish hook now. The bait he'd used was the curiosity that he could clearly see, "Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too," Sherlock said.

"I don't want to kill you," the other man said with a shake of his head. "I'm just gonna talk to you and then you're going to kill yourself."

Sherlock turned to look up at his flat's window. He turned back, stepped into the taxi and let the serial killer drive him away.

Meanwhile in the flat, Lestrade shook his head and asked John, "Why did he do that? Why did he just leave?"

"You know him better than I do," John answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I've known him for five years," Lestrade said. He shook his head and replied, "And no I don't!" He motioned for his officers to pack up and leave. He knew that they wouldn't be getting anything more out of the '_Consulting Detective & Guide_'.

John was surprised at that and confused. "So why do you put up with him?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade said, as he shrugged on his overcoat and watched the last of his men leave. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think that one day..._if_ we're very lucky...he might even become a good one."

John saw them out, but not before handing DI Lestrade his cell number on the back of one of Sherlock's business cards, that had been lying around, in case they found the man before he did. Then he returned to sit at the laptop. He re-ran the query and this time he noticed that the phone of the dead woman was traveling away from the flat.

"Bloody hell," he whispered. "I'm going to kill him."

He quickly put on his coat, loaded up the email address to his cell phone and logged into the woman's information. He sighed, as the GPS information came online. '_Idiot,_' he thought, as he flagged down a cab of his own. '_I may not be certain that you're my Guide, Sherlock, but you should have found a way to let me know about this, you great bloody prat._'

Although, he was honest enough with himself to know that they haven't had the time to develop any such signals. '_I wish he'd been in the military,_' he thought, as he instructed his cabbie to turn right on the next street. '_With his mind, he should have known the common signals to let me know where he was going, but maybe he just didn't think about it or perhaps he couldn't because of the police in the flat._'

John sighed and guided his cab in the direction where Sherlock's cab seemed to have stopped. '_I'm going to clean that flat top to bottom when I get the chance,_' he thought, as the cab slowed for a stop light. '_There's no way that a drugs bust, fake or otherwise, will ever make him nervous again._'

Dr. Watson may not have known it, but he was deep in the throws, of something called, "Protect the Guide Syndrome," that the SC had had classified as a real, medical issue that prevented Sentinels from being charged with any kind of public offense...something quite like the killing of a person or persons known or unknown in defense of a Guide...any Guide no matter their bonded status.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**TBC...**


	6. Chapter 6

**CH 6**

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

"Sherlock Holmes," the Cabbie said in a conversational tone. "I was warned about you." Sherlock only raised an eyebrow at that. "I've seen your website too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

"Who warned you about me," Sherlock asked.

"Someone out there who's noticed you," the Cabbie said.

"Who," the younger man asked. "Who would notice me?"

"You're too modest Mr. Holmes," the cab driver said. "You've got yourself a fan."

"I'm really not," Sherlock huffed out at the modesty comment and then asked, "What fan?"

The Cabbie kept quiet and never responded to the question. He just drove Sherlock to some college campus, a nice place for furthering the education of one's mind, but the underlying message was patently clear. The driver only confirmed it, when he said, "One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice, quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

He motioned for Holmes to follow him. Eventually they ended up in a study hall of all places, as there were many tables and chairs in the room.

"You ready yet, Mr. Holmes," the Cabbie said. "Ready to play?" He pulled out two small, lidded bottles with a single pill in each. He placed them on the table before him, at an equal distance from one another.

"Play what?" Sherlock said in a disappointed tone. '_Surely this isn't all that there is to this drama,_' he thought. '_How dull,_' but he only told the killer. "It's just a 50-50 chance."

"You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me," the Cabbie said from his position opposite Sherlock. "Now, did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or even a triple-bluff?"

"It's still just chance," Sherlock looked at him with a disappointed expression on his face and then at the small bottles. He'd been hoping that there was something more to this farce, so far the cabbie seemed to be just a run-of-the-mill killer.

"Four people in a row," the other man boasted. "It's not just chance."

Sherlock pushed the man's buttons when he stated, "Luck then."

"It's genius," the Cabbie said. "I know how people think. I know how people think I think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid. Even you," the man pointed at him. "Or maybe God just loves me."

"Either way you're wasted as a Cabbie," Sherlock muttered. His thoughts flung and whizzed in his head, '_A map in his head, my arse. The roads you took to get here were not efficient. You're not omnipotent either, no one is, so I highly doubt you know what the true thoughts of your victims were. I'd have only contempt for you, if I ever bothered to feel anything of that nature for someone so base._'

Sherlock looked around the room and calculated everything he'd noticed in the cab and about the cab driver himself. He knew the why of it, but he preferred to hear it from the man and so asked, "So! You risked your life four times...just to kill strangers. Why?"

"Time to play," the Cabbie said in a tone that indicated he didn't want to talk about his situation.

"Oh, I am playing," Sherlock said. "It's my turn now." His eyes narrowed and he began his deductions much in the same way he deduced everyone around him. (...i...) "You're dying! You've been married many years and have two small children, who came to you late in your life and whom you don't see anymore because you're no longer living with your wife, as evident by the age of your clothing and the lack of mending at the buttons and the store bought patches at your elbows. You're lonely, miserable and have lost the will to fight and so you resort to this game in order to bring yourself some relief of the tediousness of your existence. Just because you're dying, you've chosen to murder four people."

The Cabbie gave him a disturbing smile and clarified, "I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can have with an aneurysm these days." He still smiled and continued to explain his version of the truth. "When I die they won't get much...my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing," Sherlock observed.

"You'd be surprised," the other man said.

"Oh," Sherlock noised. "Surprise me."

"I have a sponsor," the Cabbie explained.

"You have a what?"

"A sponsor," the old man said. "For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. See? It's nicer than you think."

"Who would sponsor a serial killer," Sherlock asked, as his mind thought, '_How completely novel!_'

"Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes," the Cabbie returned. "Time to chose," he said and pulled out a gun to point it at the Consulting Detective and Guide in order to force the matter.

"What if I don't choose either," Sherlock asked. "I could just walk out of here."

"You could take that 50-50 chance or I can shoot you in the head," the Cabbie said with the gun pointing at the younger man's head. "Funny enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

Sherlock smirked and said, "I'll have the gun please."

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely," Sherlock confirmed. "The gun!"

"You don't want to phone a friend," the Cabbie asked.

"The gun," Sherlock shouted. The cab driver pulled the trigger and a little bitty flame came from the muzzle of the fake firearm. He snorted and muttered, "I know a real gun when I see one."

The Cabbie shrugged and said, "None of the others did."

"Clearly," Sherlock commented. He stood up and said, "Well this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case."

"I bet you get bored, don't ya? I know you do," the Cabbie said. "Man like you. So clever! But what's the point of being clever, if you can't prove it." He was goading the Consultant now. "Still the addict, but this, this is what you're really addicted to. You'd do anything...anything at all to stop being bored. You're not bored now, are ya? Innit good..."

Meanwhile, John had arrived at the college, but his senses didn't tell him that he was in the wrong building until it was too late. He was in a similar study hall like room and across the way he noticed Sherlock holding a pill in his hand, looking at it. His heart nearly stopped and he whispered, "No!"

His body reacted before his mind. He opened the windowed quickly. Then pulled his gun from the back of his pants, where it was lodged securely to hide it from the general public. He concentrated on his breathing, aimed... and fired twice at the grinning Cabbie. The bullet went through the old man's shoulder and the second nicked an artery, which meant that the old man was bleeding out and dying fast.

Sherlock whirled around, after he'd dropped the pill from the shock of a real gun's rapport and from the air being disturbed twice by his right ear without causing any damage to him. He looked behind him to the open window across the way and then to the one in the room he was in. He blinked because there was only one bullet hole and yet he had distinctly heard two shots fired.

He looked around and picked up the pill that he had dropped. He knelt down and got into the Cabbies gasping face and said, "I was right, wasn't I. I chose the right pill, didn't I? Tell me!"

The Cabbie was gasping and knew he was dying, but looked away and refused to give the younger man the satisfaction of being right. He ignored the question.

"Okay then," Sherlock said, throwing the pill in the dying man's face to get his attention focussed back on him. "Tell me this: your sponsor, who was it?" He stood up and looked down. "The one who told you about me...my fan... I _want_ a name."

"No," the Cabbie said.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock said, as he stepped on the man's wound. He pressed down slowly, causing the pain to treble and he said, loudly, "Give me a name." He pushed down with more pressure. "A name," he calculated his pressure and added some more after each question. "Now," more pressure. "Name," he asked louder, followed by more pressure. He pressed harder and shouted, "A NAME!"

The poor, serial killer, cabbie man who should have died of an aneurysm was dying from blood loss and was in more pain than he ever believed that he'd be in, in his life. He couldn't hold it anymore and shouted back at the younger man, "MORIARTY!"

Sherlock released the pressure from his foot, which allowed the blood to flow more freely and in short killed the serial killer off more quickly. He was not interested in making any attempts to save that man's life. In the first place he wasn't a doctor and in the second, the man had killed four fairly innocent people for money.

He turned to look through the hole from the window and knew that whoever fired the gun was a well-versed crack-shot. '_Two bullets through the same hole,_' he thought. '_If I didn't know any better, I'd say it had to have been a Sentinel or else some kind of rare expert marksman._'

The police showed up not long after, since DI Lestrade had chosen to do the same thing that John Watson had done. They followed the phone to its static position and to the closed college. They had suspected that another murder was going to be attempted, so several cars were dispatched including an ambulance.

John had ducked out of the way and ran away from the area. He had his phone on him, but that was expected, since he too had followed it in order to find Sherlock. He was surprised to receive a call from one of DI Lestrade's lackeys.

"Hello," he said. He listened and said, "I'm nearby too. I'll be right there."

He had to be careful about when the police could see him. He waited until he saw the emergency services people come out of the building with Sherlock wrapped in a ridiculous orange emergency blanket. He chuckled at what he heard the young man muttering, but he took his position between two police cars, behind the blue and white police tape. He was close enough for his new flatmate to see him, but far enough away that the police wouldn't suspect that he'd been in the area for a while.

Sherlock was guided to sit on the tail gate of the ambulance, as the police milled about taking answers from the crowd that had gathered in the area to see what was going on. He shrugged off the blanket, but a few minutes later another ambulance attendant placed it back around his shoulders with a pat to his back, which caused him to have a confused look on his face.

Lestrade came forward with grin.

"Why have I got this blanket?" Sherlock asked the man, as he lifted a corner of the dreaded orange thing. "They keep putting this blanket on me!"

"Yeah," DI Lestrade said. "That's for shock."

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock protested.

"Yeah...," the Inspector said in an amused tone. "But some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock snorted and then asked, "What about the shooter?"

"Cleared off before we got here," Lestrade told him. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them might have been following him, but we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, like the police had missed much of the obvious.

"Okay," Lestrade said with a sigh. "Gimme!"

"The bullets they dug out of the wall are from a handgun," Sherlock deduced with speedy accuracy. "A kill shot like that over that distance from that sort of weapon, you're looking for a crack-shot and not just any marksman, since _two bullets_ were fired through only _one_ bullet hole in the glass window of the room, without shattering it. Whoever it was, their hands mustn't have shaken at all so clearly that person is acclimated to violence, possibly someone with enhanced senses in order to see and fire with that kind of precision. They didn't fire until I was in immediate danger so obviously, they have a strong moral principle. You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service..."

He looked around at the gathering crowd, wondering if he could deduce who the shooter was from anyone nearby, as he continued, "With nerves of steel," he paused again when his eyes landed on John. He blinked, looked away and said, "Actually, you know what? Ignore me, I'm babbling."

"Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that, it's just the...uh," Sherlock paused really briefly. "Shock talking, yeah, just the shock..."

"Wait," Lestrade said. "Where are you going?"

"I just need to...uh," Sherlock looked at John, who was standing at parade rest, which Lestrade fully noted. That's when he saw who the young Consulting Detective was focussed on. "To talk to him about the rent..."

"But I still have questions for you," Lestrade said.

"Oh what now," Sherlock said in an exasperated tone. "I'm in shock! Look, I've even got a blanket." He lifted the corners of it to wave them at the Inspector.

"Sherlock," DI Lestrade protested.

"And I've just caught your serial killer," Sherlock explained with a wave to the dead body coming out of the building behind him. "More or less..."

"All right, fine," Lestrade said. "But I want you down at the Yard tomorrow morning to give me a proper statement." He received a nod in return and huffed with a flutter of two hands flapping them at the young man to shoo him on his way, before he turned to continue his investigation of the dead cab driver.

Sherlock walked to where John was waiting for him. He took off the offensive eye-searing blanket and tossed it into the nearest blue and white.

"It was just explained," John said with a nod to the forensics people milling outside of the buildings door, quite a distance from where they were walking away from the scene. "So two pills then?"

Sherlock just looked his new flatmate over and then asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right," John returned with a questioning frown.

"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock said in a very low tone, so that his voice didn't carry to any potentially nearby Sentinels.

"Yes, I...," John shrugged and said. "True, true, but he wasn't a very nice man. He took you away from me."

"No! No, he really wasn't was he?" Sherlock questioned, but didn't mention the possessive statement that the other man had made.

"And frankly," John said. "He was a bloody awful cabbie."

"That's true," Sherlock said with a nod and a grin. "He was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took to get us here." He chuckled, as he recalled it.

The younger man's mischievous nature caught John and he found himself giggling along. "Stop," he giggled and chuckled too. "We can't giggle," he hissed, as he tried to hold in his mirth. "It's a crime scene. Stop it."

"You're the one who shot him," Sherlock giggled back. "Not me!"

John sobered up a bit and then said, "You were going to take that damn pill weren't you."

"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock said. "I was biding my time. I knew you were there."

"No you didn't," John returned. "That's how you get your kicks isn't it? You'd risk your life to prove you're clever. I heard you! You wanted to know that you had gotten the right pill."

Sherlock huffed and then asked, "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," John replied with a grin. He received a cheeky one in return.

"Hungry, I know a place that's got excellent Chinese takeaway," Sherlock said. "You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door."

"What?" John asked, as he noted another scent in their vicinity that nearly matched Sherlock's. He also noticed his new flatmate freeze at the sight of a man in a suit with an umbrella hooked to his arm. The man's pretty assistant was there still clicking away on her Blackberry device, not paying attention to anything around them, but Watson had the feeling that she knew just what was going on because there was something about her that made him think she was a Sentinel. "Sherlock that's him, that's the man I was talking about from earlier."

"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock muttered back.

"So," the man's tone oozed out of his mouth in such a way that John wanted to smack him. "Another case cracked. How very public spirited of you. Though that's never really your motivation is it?"

"What are you doing here," Sherlock grumped, as he crossed his arms.

"As ever, I'm here because I'm concerned for you," the man said.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed. "I've been hearing about your concern."

"Always so aggressive," the man said. "Didn't it ever occur to you, that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no," the younger man retorted in a childish defiant manner.

"We've more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish," the man said. "People will suffer and you know how it always upset Mummy."

"I upset her," Sherlock asked in a mock tone of surprise. "Me?" His hand went to his chest and then he put it down to his side with clenched fist. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No," John said and looked from one to the other, noticing quite quickly some resemblances. "No, wait. Mummy! Who's Mummy?"

"Mother, our Mother," Sherlock explained. "This is my brother Mycroft. Putting on weight again?" He jibed his elder sibling.

"Losing it," Mycroft returned with what might be a pout, if you squinted in just the right way. "In fact..."

John inhaled and then questioned, "He's your brother?"

"Of course he's my brother," Sherlock said, as he stood next to his brother.

"So he's not..." John looked from one to the other in fascination. They didn't look that much alike and yet some of their mannerisms were, including the familial scent markers he was quickly learning to differentiate.

"Not what?" Sherlock looked at the Doctor, curious about what the man was thinking about or if the man was using his enhanced senses to determine them.

"I don't know," John shrugged. "A criminal mastermind, maybe?"

Sherlock snorted and said, "Close enough."

"For goodness sake, Sherlock, don't misrepresent me," Mycroft said. "I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He is the British Government," Sherlock said in an irritated tone. "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." He took hold of John's arm to nudge him away from the Ministry man. "Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic."

John pulled away and turned back to ask, "So when you say you're concerned about him," he glanced at the younger man's back. "You are actually concerned."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft replied with a confused look on his face.

"I mean," the Doctor asked. "It actually is just a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful. Came into his abilities later than most," Mycroft said. "You can image the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah," John replied absently and then shook his head. "No. God no!" He took off after his new flatmate without speaking to anybody else. Eventually he caught up to the man who slowed down for him. "So," he said, as he looked up to that strange, wonderful face. "Dim sum?"

"Mm," Sherlock noised and then he attempted to boast. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't," John huffed.

"Almost can," Sherlock tried to convince the doctor, but it didn't work. So he asked one of the questions still unanswered. "You did get shot though?"

"Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan," Sherlock said. "There was an actual wound, which lead to your being discharged."

"Oh! Yeah," John replied. "Shoulder!"

"Shoulder," Sherlock said in a triumphant tone. "I thought so."

"No you didn't!"

Sherlock looked and then said, "The left one."

"Lucky guess," John returned.

"I never guess," Sherlock stated.

John snorted and said, "Yes you do." He looked at his new friend's enthusiastic expression. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied.

"Ah," John said. "I heard that part. So who is he?"

"I have no idea," Sherlock said. "I know we'll learn about him soon enough."

Back at the police lines, Mycroft looked at the way the two men were interacting and he didn't quite like it, although, he was secretly pleased that his brother had someone around to curb his more impulsive habits. A doctor, who's only a GNA Sentinel, might just be what would be what Sherlock needed.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft said to his assistant, knowing that she was only keeping half an ear out for him. She was a lot of things to him and invaluable for now. "He could be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever. Either way we'd better upgrade their surveillance status, Grade 3 active."

"Sorry sir," she looked up from her Blackberry, prepared to send the data for the surveillance team and asked. "Who's status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, as he watched the men run away and through the streets like giddy children running away from a parent in play. He shook his head, entered his car and left the scene too. "I want a report on Moriarty, as soon as possible."

"Yes sir," the woman said, clicking away the order to the appropriate people, on her ever present Blackberry device.

Sherlock - Holmes - John - Watson

**END**

(...i...) This deduction did not come from the internet, but from my own memory of episode one. I haven't been able to find my copy of season 1, yet, but I have a few ideas on where to look (psst...my room's a mess so I guess cleaning would be the first order of the day).


End file.
